


Check and Mate

by i_claudia



Series: Check/Mate [1]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Age of Sail, Alternate Universe - Historical, Barebacking, Chess, M/M, Secret Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-28
Updated: 2010-12-28
Packaged: 2017-11-05 21:27:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/411190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/i_claudia/pseuds/i_claudia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first encounter Arthur had with Merlin Emrys was entirely unexpected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Check and Mate

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on LJ [here](http://i-claudia.livejournal.com/63733.html). (28 December 2010)

The first encounter Arthur had with Merlin Emrys was entirely unexpected: he turned around at the sound of his own name, and Lady Harrington was taking his arm and introducing him to “Captain Merlin Emrys, a dear old friend,” before Arthur could do much more than register a mop of dark hair over piercing eyes.

“An honour, Lord Pendragon.”

“The honour is mine, Captain,” Arthur said politely. “I’ve seen your name in the Register, I believe?”

“Captain Emrys has just made post,” Lady Harrington said proudly. “He won a medal for courage in the battle at—” but she was called away before she could finish, swirling her skirts and leaving the two men shifting uncomfortably in her wake. Captain Emrys proffered a hand with a wry smile, and Arthur shook it, trying not to stare at the two fingers quite obviously missing from their usual places on the far side of Emrys’ hand from the thumb.

Emrys saw the direction of his gaze before Arthur could direct it guiltily elsewhere.

“The sea will have her price,” Merlin commented lightly, and Arthur felt encouraged enough by that to indulge his natural curiosity.

“I suppose it would be terrible indiscreet and uncouth to inquire as to...”

“Not at all, dear sir,” the captain began, but before he could describe the circumstances they were being whisked in to dinner by insistent servants.

Arthur was seated at his customary place near the head of the table; Merlin was, to Arthur’s great but unsurprised disappointment, placed very much lower down. Arthur was too well-bred to be anything but politely attentive to his dinner partner, but if his mind wandered rather frequently to the smart blue and gold of Merlin’s uniform, that was only his unsatisfied curiosity speaking.

He did not know this at the time—would never have guessed—but Merlin was sending him covert, curious looks in return until he was caught out by his own dinner partner, a lovely young lady of immaculate reputation with a perfectly displayed décolletage to accompany it, who assured him as he turned an unattractive scarlet that she did not mind in the least, and engaged him in conversation about his heirloom pocket watch for the rest of the meal.

Arthur was not granted the chance to speak to Merlin Emrys again until well after the ladies had retired, leaving the men to toast the health of the King and the downfall of Buonaparte with an excellent brandy. Cigars had begun to be lit, and after searching discreetly about for some time, Arthur wandered out of the salon into the Harrington’s well-stocked library to find Captain Emrys inspecting a crystal chess set.

“Do you play?” Arthur leant against the door, watching as Merlin straightened and squared his shoulders under the rich broadcloth of his uniform.

“When I can,” Merlin answered. His voice was warm, rich without losing a certain tenor that sent it skimming lightly through the air. “Will—that is, Dr Williams, _Kilgharrah_ ’s surgeon—occasionally indulges me, though he prefers cards.”

“ _Kilgharrah_ ; that would be your ship?”

“Yes: a fine twelve-pounder frigate.”

Captain Emrys very kindly did not elaborate further; for this, Arthur was ruefully grateful. Navy men, he knew from experience, could go for days explaining mizzens and mainmasts and bow-sprits and a whole host of beastly nautical things Arthur had never understood. “I’m afraid I hardly know a frigate from a schooner,” he confessed, and at Emrys’ aghast expression, quickly concealed, he hurried on, gesturing at the chess set. “I suppose it is too late to ask the pleasure of a game tonight?”

“I am afraid so,” Merlin agreed, though he did seem genuinely sorry. “We leave for an Adriatic cruise with the morning tide; I must get back to my ship.”

Arthur hid his disappointment, but Emrys saw clear through his artifice and said: “Perhaps the next time I am in London? Though only God and old Boney know when that may be.”

“I shall look forward to it, Captain,” Arthur replied dutifully, standing aside to allow Emrys past.

“As shall I, Lord Pendragon,” Emrys replied with another of his small smiles, which sent Arthur’s heart into strange movements in his breast, an uncomfortable sensation which only doubled when Emrys laid a soft touch just above Arthur’s elbow as he passed.

For his part upon leaving, Merlin walked half the way to his ship with trembling hands and clammy palms, navigating the familiar streets with a dazedness he did not generally associate with dinner parties he had been invited to only as a favour or to be shown off. It lasted until he reached _Kilgharrah_ , whereupon the comforting mantle of commander distracted him with the multitude of problems which had sprung up in his absence and which must be resolved before their tide. He kept the chance meeting at the back of his mind, however, and long after they had begun wending their way south along the winds and currents he took his violin out of its stained case and let it ease his turbulent thoughts, much to the benevolent consternation of his steward.

“Which it ain’t natural,” Gaius grumbled more than once while he was preparing the captain’s customary after dinner toasted cheese to anyone who was willing to listen. “All that mournful scraping; it’ll do him a mischief, mark my words.” After nigh on two years of the same company most of the older Kilgharrahs did not mark his words, though newer members of the crew more readily indulged him in discussions of what manner of woman might have broken their captain’s heart.

“It’ll be a right lady,” Gaius observed to Michael Curtis, a midshipman who looked much younger than his thirteen years and who, being a bit muddled from fatigue, had wandered astray of his post—which was, at the moment, to be firmly in his bunk. It was a later than the customary hour for the captain’s cheese, the winds having given them a spot of trouble near Gibraltar, and Mr. Curtis nodded with more vehemence than perhaps was necessary, preoccupied as he was with not falling asleep on his feet. Gaius, focused on the weightier problem of his captain’s lovelorn fiddling, failed to notice his audience was not as attentive as he assumed. “A proper uncommon dame from good family.” He meditated for a moment on the trouble good women inevitably seemed to cause the men who had the misfortune of falling in love with them, and then, noticing that Mr. Curtis had finally managed to doze while leaning against the wall, he added kindly: “Go to sleep, lad; the ship will keep until morning.”

Mr. Curtis’s father would have been appalled to see his son taking orders from a steward, but the boy only said, with exhausted relief: “Thank you, sir,”—the _sir_ a habitual reflex now—and stumbled off to find his hammock.

Merlin played on through all of this, his feet planted firmly shoulder-width apart on the rocking wooden deck that was to him more welcome than any fine house ashore, his eyes closed and his head bent low over his fiddle, blissfully unaware of anything but the faint image of blue eyes and proudly squared broad shoulders taunting him from the back of his mind.

*

The second time Arthur met Captain Emrys, it was once again a most unexpected encounter. More than a year had passed, and Arthur was visiting Morgana, who had thrown her obligations to the wind and set herself up in Malta following a scandalous divorce she was not at all ashamed of.

“Captain Emrys, it has been too long,” Arthur exclaimed when he and Morgana quite literally ran into Emrys in the crowded street. He had not recognised the other man immediately, the picture he held in his head having deviated slightly from reality and Merlin having acquired a thin new scar across his left cheekbone, the result of the overhasty and careless swing of a Frenchman’s sword. Arthur was surprised and yet gladdened to find that his mind had not done the man proper justice in his absence: Captain Emrys in person, he reflected, was a deceptively impressive specimen. “The Adriatic treated you well, I hear.”

At this, Morgana began paying closer attention, giving her brother a probing look, for she had caught him many a night poring over the Register, blustering when she asked which name he was searching for and refusing to say anything about it. Certain things were becoming clear with the delighted expression Arthur was failing to hide, but she chose to say nothing, merely observing the two men together.

“Lord Pendragon,” Emrys said with a nod just this side of curt to be considered entirely polite. “I must beg your pardon, sir; I have urgent business to attend to, which will not wait.”

“Of course,” Arthur said at once; Morgana could easily read his offense at the slight and the embarrassment which immediately followed. It was a curious display.

“But you must come and dine with us this evening, Captain,” she said, interrupting the conversation as it was evident Arthur would never extend the invitation, and as she thought she had an idea of the kind of business the captain was speaking of: he would need diversion afterward. The court martial was the talk of the harbor and beyond. “If your business allows?”

Emrys hesitated, but in the end allowed: “It would be an honour,” and took his leave.

Morgana and Arthur walked in silence, following their habitual way to their favourite coffee house in an effort to escape the brutal heat.

“Coffee for me,” Arthur told the waiter, “and—sherbert, Morgana?—a sherbert for the lady. Now,” he said, once the man had bowed and departed, “tell me. What on earth are you about? I know you; you have that dangerous look to you again.”

“Why, Arthur,” Morgana said lightly, “have you no faith in me at all? We are short one for dinner, since Leon has done us the great disservice of falling ill—” she must remember to call on Leon and tell him that, he was a wonderfully understanding gentleman, “—and you know how I like to meet interesting people.”

“You know Uther’s opinion of the Navy,” Arthur warned her, but he looked awkward and irritable, which, Morgana thought with satisfaction, was more than enough evidence to confirm her suspicions. 

“Our father is in London,” she pointed out. “And it isn’t as if Captain Emrys is some pressed ruffian lying in wait to rob me of my jewels. I shall have to pair him with Gwen,” she mused; “if he’s anywhere near Agravaine I will hear no end of it.”

“They will get on famously,” Arthur predicted, looking unaccountably gloomy at the thought. “And Lancelot will never be so crass as to let himself be jealous of them.”

Lancelot conducted himself admirably indeed the entire evening; it was Arthur, to his horror, who felt a tiny jealousy rise up in him every time Gwen laughed at something Captain Emrys said. At first he found it almighty disturbing—he and Gwen had done _ages_ ago, and he had not thought of her as anything more than a dear friend in years—until he noticed the unwholesome emotion made itself known not when he gazed on the beautiful Guinevere, but on Emrys himself.

“Damned inconvenient,” he swore under his breath, and turned away with a vehemence that badly startled his pretty, nervous dinner partner. From the smug glance Morgana threw at him, he gathered that she had known all along, which only increased his foul temper.

“I beg your pardon,” he apologised to his partner, who had the look of a gossip about her. “I have been feeling rather poorly; this terrible heat, you know.”

“Oh yes,” she agreed, relieved at the benign subject, so at odds with his stormy face from moments before. “Lord Keith says it’s the worst in years.”

He managed the rest of the meal well enough after that, with just the right amount of practiced patter until he was able to excuse himself after the final course and find Emrys on the balcony, staring pensively out at the bobbing lights in the harbor, the corners of his mouth turned down.

“A beautiful night,” he observed, for so it was, and the sight of Emrys under the heavy-hanging moon was enough to clear away his earlier mood.

Emrys, surprised from his unhappy reverie, stepped back from the rail. “Lord Pendragon, forgive me; I did not see—”

Arthur waved a hand. “It is I who must beg pardon for disturbing you, Captain,” he said. “And please, Lord Pendragon is so insufferably formal: it’s Arthur.”

“Then I must be Merlin,” the captain replied determinedly, and the two men leant on the balustrade together.

“What were you pondering so closely when I interrupted?” Arthur asked, curiosity once again having the better of him.

Merlin had in fact been reflecting on the court martial of the carpenter’s mate that afternoon, an entirely loathsome affair for reasons he did not care to dwell on, most particularly that the accusation had needed to present very little in the way of true evidence. At least that wrong had been recognised in the end, and the poor soul had only been dismissed from the service and not hanged: the usual and invariable punishment for sodomites.

Feeling that his gloomy thoughts would distress Arthur unduly—they were not exactly fit conversation for dinner parties—Merlin merely said: “I was meditating on Jupiter, attempting to determine the positions of her moons.”

Arthur, in turn, sensed the fabrication, having correctly guessed the unhappy occurrence the captain had been thinking of, but he was much too well-bred to show it. “And have you succeeded?”

“Not as yet,” Merlin said, truthfully. “There are certain things which must be taken into account—our position, the time of year—and I have not yet considered their full effects.”

“It must be difficult,” Arthur said, giving Merlin a keen look, wondering... but he allowed a silence to creep around them—which if not quite comfortable, was more than companionable—before asking, on impulse, “Might I trouble you for a game of chess while you are ashore? I have not had a good game since leaving London—unless... unless you have other business, of course,” he added, a trifle hurriedly. 

Merlin hesitated, so long that Arthur nearly withdrew the offer. It had been rashly done, poorly said, and there was a chance he had misread entirely—

“It has been a long time since my last chess game,” Merlin admitted at last, and Arthur nearly let out a sigh, relieved.

“I suppose you would not have had the time, not while bringing three French—schooners, weren’t they?—and some sort of odd Moorish boat in as prizes.”

Merlin smiled, turning to lean his elbows on the rail and tilting his face up toward the moon. “They were neither schooners nor _boats_ ,” he said—though he left out the bit about there also being a great deal more than four ships, as that felt rather too much like showing away—“but you are right; I rarely have much time for leisure on cruises.”

“No time whatsoever?” Arthur queried, slanting a look at Merlin from the corner of his eyes. “Though surely I’ve heard about weeks where there is scarcely a breeze to move the sails...”

“Those are terrible weeks indeed,” agreed Merlin, “and ones that every sailor must run into, but Providence sent us a quick and easy voyage this time. And in any event,” he added, with somewhat of a crooked smile, “there is little call for chess players on board the frigates of His Majesty’s Navy.”

“There is little call for them anywhere these days, it seems,” Arthur said soberly, and Merlin lowered his head in acknowledgement.

“I am afraid the world has never been very welcoming of them, dear sir.”

Arthur turned again to gaze back out at the harbour, caught between hesitance and a nervous brooding excitement. He was nearly sure Merlin was speaking of the same things he himself was, but there was no way to be entirely certain... Another man might have held back, played toward caution, especially in light of the court martial he had been hearing rumours of all afternoon, but Arthur had never set much store by prudence.

Presently, after a few minutes of silent consideration, made all the more pleasurable by the edge of dangerous uncertainty which had crept in around them, Arthur asked, “Have I been led astray in believing you leave not two days hence? For I would dearly love a game of chess with you, dear captain, but it seems to me a game in haste would spoil the entertainment.”

“No, we have at least a week ashore,” Merlin replied. He had been watching Arthur closely, finding him a harder thing by far to read than the sea: he was familiar with the tides, with shifting currents and fickle winds and waves taller than his ship, but Arthur was a new phenomenon entirely, unknown. Arthur was a danger that quickened Merlin’s pulse, set his blood to humming as if some hidden space inside him had beat to quarters, and Merlin was abruptly glad for the delay which earlier had chafed him into harsh words with the harbour master. “It will be at least that long before the _Kilgharrah_ is back in fighting order. I lodge at the Crown and Anchor—do you know it?”

“I dare say I will be able to navigate my way to its door,” Arthur said, risking a mischievous wink. “Shall we say later in the afternoon, after the thrice-cursed heat is lessened?”

The hour thus agreed upon, both retired to the main party, where their absence had barely begun to be noticed. Arthur was quite unable to remain anywhere near Merlin for the rest of the evening, but he caught Merlin looking at him often, and each time he did a warm tremble of anticipation ran through him, leaving him in a delightfully cheerful mood. 

Arthur knew the laws as well as anyone, knew the penalties were harsh and harsher under the Articles a post-captain must necessarily be bound to, but he had never been one to deny himself what he desired. He was careful with his intimates—oh, so careful—and discreet, cautious to extremes, but he was not afraid of death or shame, nor paralyzed by honour into total silence. The next day found him striding confidently down the street toward the Crown, a chess set in a small, worn box—both stolen from Morgana, who wouldn’t mind—tucked carefully under one arm.

Merlin greeted him at the door, and explained that at the moment his rooms were being given a thorough cleaning, that he had only barely escaped a cleaning himself. “Freya is an old friend,” he explained wryly—Arthur had to think a moment to remember that was the given name of the proprietress of the establishment, a slight creature nevertheless possessed of a stentorian voice—“and she likes to fuss over me while I am in port. Should you mind very much if we postponed our game for a walk?”

“Not in the least,” Arthur replied, with a warmth which surprised him. They strolled together down the narrow streets, wending easily through the throng, and saw no one they cared to speak to but themselves. Arthur found himself telling Merlin all manner of things he never should have believed he would confide in another soul: Merlin was damned easy to converse with, animated and extraordinarily courteous without appearing the least bit disinterested. He found himself watching Merlin’s mouth often, watching the way his full red lips formed the words, as if each syllable were a luscious gift, and wished very much that he could kiss Merlin, as if by kissing him he might capture those gifts for himself alone. As they were at that moment walking leisurely down the main promenade, Arthur could not indulge the impulse, but he saved the thought, savouring the anticipation.

They returned to the Crown and Anchor after not a few pleasant hours, and found the bosun’s mate of the _Kilgharrah_ waiting in the parlour, twisting his cap in his hands.

“Excuse me,” Merlin said to Arthur with a regretful look, and went to speak to his crewman. Arthur lacked the nautical ear to follow the conversation entirely, but he gathered that there was something amiss, that the ship was likely about to sink to the bottom of the harbour with all hands, that Merlin was needed immediately or the entire world might end in a chaos of fire and brimstone.

“I am sorry,” Merlin murmured to Arthur as he took his leave, the bosun’s mate waiting in agitation by the door. “We never did have our match.”

Arthur attempted to look blithely unaffected—by the concern in Merlin’s face, he was fairly sure he fell some way short, but he said determinedly: “You have a few days still in port; we have only postponed it.”

He thought to add more, but Merlin was away in an instant, leaving Arthur to make his slow way back to his own rooms, the streets seeming more crowded now, emptier of their usual delights without Merlin to explore them with. 

The next day he could not bear waiting for afternoon, but set off in the morning first thing, leaving Morgana’s house so quickly he was nearly still tying his neckcloth in the street. He found Merlin in the parlour of the Crown, occupied with the paper and a boy who looked to be about eight and who was perched on the arm of Merlin’s chair, insisting Merlin tell him more about the naval battles he had fought and won.

Arthur couldn’t blame the boy—he enjoyed a good yarn, himself—but when Merlin looked up and smiled at Arthur, roses blooming in his cheeks, all Arthur could think was that it was a damned shame the boy was in the way.

“I apologise for coming so early,” Arthur said, taking the chair next to Merlin’s after their initial greeting. “I found I could not bear a minute longer waiting.”

“I am glad for it,” Merlin said warmly, and his eyes caught and held Arthur’s, the deep steady blue of his gaze sending quivers deep to pluck at Arthur’s ribs, striking chords of eager anticipation inside his chest.

“Are you going to play chess?” the boy demanded—he had discovered Arthur’s box, which Arthur had set down across the room, and opened it to find the pieces. “You must let me watch!”

“Mordred,” Merlin tried, keenly aware that Arthur had gone very still next to him but without much real hope of dissuading the boy, “shouldn’t you be helping your aunt?”

“Aunt Freya told me I wasn’t to go into the kitchens at any cost, or she would string me up by my ears,” Mordred sulked. “No one’s ever played chess with me before; please, _please_ may I watch?” He opened his eyes very wide, looking at both of them with a lip that trembled ever so slightly, and even Arthur felt the iron in his heart melting.

Which is how they ended up playing chess in the parlour, Mordred hanging over the back of Merlin’s chair and offering eager suggestions and critiques of the prowess of each of the players in turn.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” he informed Arthur halfway through the game. “Now Merlin can take your—oh, he’s done it, hurrah!—he can take your bishop.”

Arthur gritted his teeth. “And now,” he said, as calmly as he was able, “I am able to take Merlin’s knight.” And so he did, leaving Mordred to look betrayed and direct Merlin’s next move in an attempt to make up the loss. Merlin did not much mind Mordred’s interest in principle—he was always glad to entertain youngsters who showed real spirit and curiosity—but when Arthur was sitting across from him, hot-eyed and intent on the match, his fingers caressing each piece as he moved deliberately, leisurely, as if each move were a promise: a promise to conquer, to lay bare... Merlin was hardly to be faulted for being curter than usual with the child’s inquisitiveness.

The game slowed as it went, and yet all three of them were abruptly surprised to find the players had been moving pieces on the board for five minutes without the faintest hope of either winning. 

“A stalemate,” Arthur said, disappointed although he would be hard pressed to say why, being as Mordred’s presence immediately put paid to any of the further activities he had imagined. After a moment’s reflection, however, he concluded that a stalemate was in fact a welcomed end: both could leave the table feeling as though they had done their best. Certainly, he thought privately, Merlin was the best chess player with whom he had had the privilege to engage, the strongest in many years.

“We shall just have to have another match tomorrow,” Merlin said, cheerful, and Arthur nodded his agreement. The rest of their time together was spent comfortably ensconced in the same parlour, conversing undisturbed—Mordred having been called away by his aunt to be scolded for bothering the gentlemen and leaving his chores undone—except, finally, by the pangs of hunger.

“I ran here before breakfast,” Arthur said ruefully, and Merlin laughed at him and told him to be on his way before he fainted from hunger.

“I am hardly some pale maiden about to swoon,” Arthur objected, but he allowed himself to be shepherded to the door, where he stopped and turned, one hand braced on the wooden frame and the other, hidden from view, barely touching Merlin’s hip. “May I call again tomorrow?” he murmured: quiet, although the words by themselves were hardly damning, because he wished to keep this—to keep Merlin—as close, as secret to himself as he was able.

“Of course,” Merlin replied, surprised. He placed a careful hand on Arthur’s chest, just over his heart, found the pulse there beating steady, though rapid. Arthur caught his breath. “This time, I think, without the pleasure of young Mordred’s company.”

“All the better,” Arthur said, intent. He felt drawn toward Merlin—swayed forward even, a fraction of an inch—before remembering himself and stepping away. “Until tomorrow, then.” He left quickly, barely hearing Merlin’s reply, for he was not sure of himself, not sure whether he might be so overcome by Merlin’s presence that he might—

It was a curious effect, one which had never given him difficulties before, and it should have troubled him. He knew that Merlin must necessarily leave with his ship, that they might never find each other again in this life, but he chose not to think of that: a conscious choice, a necessary wilful ignorance he embraced as he had never embraced it before. Merlin was dangerous, Arthur sensed, dangerous to him in ways that had never so much as occurred to Arthur in earlier liaisons, but that only excited him all the more, until he was fairly pacing the magnificently tiled floors of Morgana’s home, waiting for the moon to rise and even more impatiently for it to set.

In the morning, Arthur made the mistake of presenting himself for breakfast, conscious of how his hunger had cut short his time with Merlin the day before. The activities he had planned for the day required considerably more exertion than chess, and he was anxious to have sufficient energy so as to render them all the more enjoyable.

“Arthur,” Morgana greeted him, studying him closely over the eggs. “You seem in good spirits today.”

“Of course I am,” Arthur said carelessly, and then hastened to add, “How could I not be, with such a fine place to explore, and such fine weather to benefit from?” as Morgana’s expression had turned suspicious.

“Not four days ago you were moaning to all and sundry about the heat and the natives and how long it would be before you could return to England,” Morgana pointed out.

Arthur busied himself with the toast. “Perhaps I only needed time to adjust to the climate,” he answered, trying not to bristle defensively. Morgana was far too adept at discovering his secrets. 

“Perhaps,” Morgana said, not believing a word of it. “Or perhaps it has something to do with where you’ve been disappearing to every day?”

“Not at all,” Arthur said firmly, and refused to answer any more questions until they had eaten. Just before he was able to make good his escape, however, Morgana caught at his sleeve and held it, refusing to let go when he tugged away.

“Arthur—” she started, troubled and not afraid to let that show in her face and voice.

“It’s nothing to worry yourself about, Morgana,” Arthur cut in sharply, because Morgana had tried to interfere with his business before, and it had never gone well for either of them.

“I know,” she said, her expression not lightening in the least. “But—be careful. Promise me you’ll be—”

“I promise,” he cut in, and escaped at last, through the cool halls of her house and out finally into the hot sun, already blazing high overhead. The path to the Crown and Anchor was already familiar, familiar enough that he barely stopped along his way, completely bent on his destination. Such was his focus that he nearly ran directly by Freya, who smiled and waved him by while he fumbled a blushing apology.

“I was told to expect you, Lord Pendragon, you’ve nothing to worry about. Merlin’s already waiting for you and your chess set; go straight on upstairs.”

“Thank you,” he managed, barely able to stand it, and took the stairs two at a time.

Merlin threw open his door, hasty, at the sound of Arthur’s footsteps, and both came to a stop: Merlin with his fingers still on the handle of the oak door and Arthur paused at the top of the stair, both of them simply _looking_ , drinking the other in as if they had both been blind since their parting and had only now regained their vision.

“I was afraid I’d never get away from Morgana,” Arthur said after some time, his voice hoarse from the dust and desire layered thick in his throat.

Merlin, equally affected, merely said: “Come in.” He nearly added, _Shut the door behind you_ , but considered it redundant in light of the look in Arthur’s eyes. Similarly, he rejected both _I thought I’d perish with the waiting_ and _never has a night passed so slowly_ for he saw both thoughts already reflected in Arthur’s face and the careful tension in his shoulders.

This match was even more agonizing than the last. They had no Mordred to recall them to the bounds of proper behaviour, and though largely they kept to the protocol of the game, little things betrayed them both. Arthur’s hands trembled with each move: tremors he could not control, watching Merlin play. He noticed Merlin’s fingers, his wrists and hands, and wondered how he could have missed noticing them before. They were delicate hands, seemingly too delicate to be a captain’s, too delicate for a lifetime of hardship at sea until one looked further, to the absent spaces of his other fingers. He noticed the way Merlin caught his lip while thinking, wanted to cover Merlin’s mouth with his own and bite at the same lip himself, just to see what Merlin tasted like.

“Check,” Merlin said, and Arthur _ached_ at the desperate waver in his voice, ached to touch, to feed that desperation with his own desire.

In the end, Merlin lost out of a beginner’s error, missing the approach of Arthur’s queen until it was too late. “Well done,” he said, leaning back in his seat while Arthur slid the pieces into place in their box. “Very cleverly played, friend.”

“Thank you,” Arthur said graciously, and snapped the clasp of the case shut. It made a quiet _snick_ , and then they were left looking at one another, the tension thrumming through both their bodies so strongly they were quite unable to act upon it until Arthur ventured: “Tell me, captain; you have had the good fortune to take quite a number of prizes, have you not?”

Merlin, confused, replied: “Yes, a good many, but, Arthur—”

“What, then, would you say is the proper protocol for claiming a prize—for accepting the surrender, as it were?”

Merlin’s eyes went wide, then dark. “I would ask,” he said, voice low and husky, “for the captain’s sword.”

“I thought I recalled that being the case,” Arthur said, moving the small table they had been playing on from between them with some effort. Merlin was watching him with hooded eyes, his breath shallow in his chest and his fingers gripping hard onto his thighs. “May I ask,” Arthur continued, dropping his voice to little more than a whisper, “for your sword, captain?”

“God, yes,” Merlin breathed, leaning unconsciously toward Arthur, standing when Arthur stood. Arthur’s hands were shaking badly; he put them on Merlin to keep them steady, stroking them over Merlin’s shoulders and down his muscled back until he couldn’t hold back a minute longer, and kissed him.

It was hesitant at first, despite the long days spent waiting: a measuring, searching kiss, until they could bear the pace no longer, and then they pushed deeper, harder, more desperately. Arthur pulled Merlin in by the hips, slid a hand around to cup the curve of his arse and tug him closer, until there was no room between them, nothing but Merlin pressing up against him, cock thick and urgent beneath his trousers.

“Arthur,” Merlin groaned into Arthur’s mouth when Arthur rocked against him. “Arthur, please—”

And then they were fumbling with buckles, buttons, Arthur cursing the elaborate cut of his jacket and Merlin laughing, pressing his joy into Arthur’s skin with kisses all along his neck and down his collarbone as the skin slowly was revealed. They stumbled to the bed, shedding shoes and losing buttons as they went, and Arthur pushed until Merlin went willingly beneath him, stretched on his back while Arthur leaned over him, one knee on the mattress, and kissed him, chasing the taste of Merlin’s tongue. So focused was he, so utterly wrapped in the small sounds Merlin made, the quiet puffs of breath and the way his lips were slightly chapped from the sun and salt and wind, that he barely noticed what Merlin’s hands were doing until Merlin had undone his trousers completely and was shoving them down around his knees.

“Strip,” Merlin panted when Arthur pulled away with a gasp. “Dear heart, please—God, I have to see you—” He struggled up onto his elbows while Arthur obeyed, stepping out of his trousers to stand completely bare before Merlin.

“Beautiful,” Merlin approved, and Arthur said, impatient,

“Your _sword_ , Merlin.”

Merlin smiled—a filthy, utterly depraved smile—and lay back again, reaching above his head to grope beneath his pillow. “You’ll have to take it from me,” he said, lifting his hips up in clear, taunting invitation.

Arthur growled and met the challenge, tearing Merlin’s trousers from him before Merlin had found and produced the small bottle of oil he had tucked away the night before, when he had lain in the bed and used his fingers on himself, dreaming it was Arthur.

“Take this,” he said, thrusting the oil at Arthur, and bit his lip to hold back the groan when Arthur dropped to his knees and tugged him to the edge of the bed.

“Let it out,” Arthur whispered, running his fingers down Merlin’s belly to rub the skin along the join where Merlin’s leg met his body. “Surrender, Merlin; let me hear you.”

“Can’t,” Merlin choked out. “Someone will hear—I... oh, oh _Arthur_.” He was obliged to bite down very suddenly and very hard on the back of his hand, because Arthur was... Arthur was...

Arthur was sucking Merlin’s cock into his mouth, sliding slowly down until he felt it hit the back of his throat and then pulling back, curling a hand around the base of it before taking it in again, savouring the hot taste of Merlin on his tongue, the helpless noises Merlin made as his hips bucked up, straining for more. Arthur held him down, took him in again and deeper, sucked until he felt the saliva running down his chin, until his jaw ached with it; worked Merlin in his mouth until Merlin was whimpering, making breathless, pleading noises, and then Arthur spilt the oil on his fingers and slipped one around Merlin’s balls to scratch gently at the delicate skin behind them.

Merlin made a gratifying noise, and swore. Arthur pulled off of Merlin’s cock to lick along its length, dragging his lips along it in a filthy kiss as he dragged his finger further back, rubbing it over the nub of Merlin’s arsehole, the tight ring of muscle which only clenched tighter as Arthur teased it.

“Hush, love, relax,” Arthur soothed when Merlin choked and wriggled as Arthur pushed further in, just barely, stroking the edge of that muscle as it fluttered wildly. 

“More,” Merlin gritted out, half-mad already from Arthur’s mouth, from his finger pressing in not nearly deep enough, from his hand holding Merlin down, keeping him from shoving back himself. “Damn you, give me more.”

Arthur couldn’t help but chuckle, and asked, “Who is claiming the prize from who?” but he put his mouth back on Merlin, tilted his head and took Merlin’s cock in as he sunk his finger deeper, an alternating rhythm that had Merlin whimpering, squirming beneath him in painful exhilaration. He added another finger, marvelling in how readily Merlin opened, his body greedy, clutching at Arthur as he worked Merlin open, as if Merlin truly needed as much as Arthur was able to give and more besides.

It was three fingers before Merlin gasped and plucked at Arthur’s shoulder, tugging him onto the bed and wrapping his legs around Arthur’s. “Now,” Merlin demanded, sliding one foot slow up the back of Arthur’s calf. “I need you now.”

Arthur reached for his own cock, slicking it easily from the oil still dripping from his fingers, and Merlin reached with him, stroked it before Arthur brushed the tip along the crease of Merlin’s arse, and Merlin arched up, groaning long and low. “ _Now_ ,” he repeated, threading his fingers through Arthur’s hair, glaring. 

And Arthur obeyed, thrust into that furled heat, so tight around his cock he groaned himself, his voice joining with Merlin’s in a litany of _God, yes, please, faster_. Merlin rose to meet him, and as Arthur drove in again they found a natural rhythm, one which carried them spiralling quickly ever-higher, Merlin’s legs firmly around Arthur’s waist and Arthur shoving into him almost in delirium, so fully did Merlin occupy his senses. He lifted up, pressed until Merlin was bent nearly in two, his shoulders taking the brunt of the weight while his hands scrabbled for purchase, and fucked him like that, hard and faster now, desperate so close to release, the breath catching sharp and painful in his lungs while Merlin sobbed beneath him.

Merlin was finished when Arthur shifted to put a hand on him: two deliberate strokes along the length of his cock and his eyes squeezed shut, his mouth opening wide in a silent shout as his dick jerked in Arthur’s grip, splashing come all the way up his chest to the curving divots of his collarbone, where it pooled, hot and glistening. Arthur moved again, bringing himself lower, more fully over Merlin to lap at it, to clean Merlin with his tongue while he pounded deep—close now, so close as Merlin moaned and dragged his fingers over Arthur’s back, leaving uneven scratches.

“Kiss me,” Merlin gasped, winding his fingers back into Arthur’s hair and yanking hard until Arthur obeyed, and that was—Arthur thought about Merlin tasting himself on Arthur’s tongue, licking his come greedily out of Arthur’s mouth while his heels dug hard into Arthur’s arse, about how Merlin must be sore, sensitive now, and still his body begged for more—

He came, as Merlin had, in silence, panting helplessly into Merlin’s mouth while his body arched and twisted into ecstasy, and when it was done, when he felt sufficiently recovered to move away, to roll off of Merlin because he must be heavy, it must be hard for Merlin to breathe, Merlin only tightened his grip and refused to let Arthur go.

They fell asleep there, and when Arthur awoke the shadows had lengthened and Merlin was pushing his own fingers into himself, biting his lip against the burn while he stretched himself wide again. As Arthur watched, heavy-lidded and aroused, he lifted his fingers to his lips and tasted them—tasted himself, tasted _Arthur_ , Arthur’s come, which was still sliding slow and viscous down his arse—

Arthur could hardly be blamed for turning Merlin onto his stomach and tasting it for himself before taking him again.

They passed a most agreeable afternoon that way, and much as Arthur wished for time to slow, to stop, to give them a lifetime to explore each other’s bodies, eventually evening crept in around them and forced them to a halt. Arthur pulled himself off the bed reluctantly and began to put himself back together, erasing a little more of Merlin’s touch with every bit of clothing he pulled on.

He did not like to look at Merlin, did not like to think what might happen between them now that they had achieved their coupling so spectacularly, and so it made him start when Merlin said, quite unexpectedly:

“I’ll win our next match.”

Arthur turned to look at him, stunned. Merlin was still lying naked and dishevelled in the mess they had made of the bed, stretched out shamelessly, and Arthur wanted to go to him now, to run his hands along the curves and angles of this body they were still learning, to bury himself in Merlin again and make him fall apart from the inside out.

He bit the inside of his cheek instead, knowing Merlin could read his thoughts in his eyes, and took up the challenge. “Tomorrow, then?”

“Don’t be late,” Merlin said, dark promise in his eyes, and Arthur had to leave or run the risk of never being able to part from Merlin again.

Three days Merlin had left in port; three days they played chess—sometimes in Merlin’s room, sometimes in the parlour, always ending up in Merlin’s bed, tangling the sheets around themselves as they fucked, all gasping breath and sweaty hands and whispers of _yes, joy, yes, yes_. On the last day they gave only the barest courtesy to the match, both of them playing badly, fumbling the moves until at last, mercifully, Merlin knocked over Arthur’s king and launched himself at Arthur, tearing at his clothes frantically and bearing him down to the bed. 

They both held too hard that afternoon, leaving bruises where their fingers pressed, and Arthur slid into Merlin at a furious pace, pressing deeper until Merlin felt he would split apart directly, laid bare and broken at Arthur’s feet. Yet it was Arthur who buried his face in Merlin’s shoulder, Arthur who mouthed desperate pleas against his skin and bit, leaving marks where the words might sink into Merlin’s being.

“Where do you sail next?” Arthur asked while they dressed, because he could not say _You are the best I could ever hope to have_.

“Around South America, to the Galapagos and further if there is need,” Merlin replied softly, and Arthur had to turn his face away to hide his despair. South America! The far side of the world, and a terrible voyage beyond. He did not reply, not trusting his voice to keep from betraying him. They had said, he felt, all that there was to say; they shared one last slow, clinging kiss before opening the door to the world they had shut out before, and from there the leave-taking was quiet and without fuss.

Merlin left after a cursory handshake without looking over his shoulder—as he must, as Arthur knew he must—and Arthur straightened his neckcloth before turning his steps in the opposite direction, back toward Morgana’s house and his old life, which felt thin and small after the short days spent in Merlin’s company.

He arose early the following morning, having inquired of the tides the day before, and walked along the streets before sunrise to the hills outside the city, which, he had been informed, offered the best view of the harbour that was to be had. The _Kilgharrah_ was recognisable by the activity swarming over her deck as her sails caught and billowed in the wind, turning to face the mouth of the harbour and the open sea beyond—but even without that, he would have known her, Merlin having painted every detail for him in crystalline detail. He sat on a low rocky outcrop and watched the ship pull away, picking up speed now as it left the shelter of the cove, dashing out across the waves. Months, he knew; months and more until she returned, and no guarantee of who might live to return with her.

The sails were a tiny white speck in the distance, hardly to be seen at all, but still he watched, rubbing his fingers absently over the places Merlin had marked as his own the day before, and thought about the note he had slipped into Merlin’s coat pocket before they had parted, the promises he had been able to voice only through pen and paper. He thought about the note he had found folded in his own pocket, discovered only when he had emptied his pockets following a quiet dinner.

The wait was long, but he would bear it, so long as Merlin would have him in return.


End file.
